


Shelter

by liriodendron



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Complete, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, Self-Harm, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liriodendron/pseuds/liriodendron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A portrait of a friendship moving into a romance, and of trying to figure out how hold on when everything you have begins to fall apart. Drug use/unhealthy relationships, marking as possible dubious consent to be safe. Contains case-related violence and (trigger warning!) depictions of self-harm.</p><p>"It starts with a dance. It ends with blood. There is not so much distance between the two as one might think. Most things worth doing ultimately require either blood or tears and this one will extract both. But that is not for a long time yet.  This is just the beginning, and right now there is only dancing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It starts with a dance. It ends with blood. There is not so much distance between the two as one might think. Most things worth doing ultimately require either blood or tears and this one will extract both. But that is not for a long time yet.  This is just the beginning, and right now there is only dancing.

Countless women, exotic birds in glittering gowns every colour of the rainbow adorn a dance floor, in a house old enough and large enough to have its own ballroom. Men, elegant magpies in nearly identical coats and tails, attend them, twirling them round, showing them off, moving in step with them. Other men and women, likewise attired, line the sides of the cavernous room, admiring, eating, drinking, chatting gaily like a flock of finches, flitting about from one conversation to the next, never settling.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do not dance and do not flit. They stand, a little apart, in an out-of-the way corner near the canapés, indistinguishable from the rest by dress yet with a well-defined chasm of mental space between themselves and the rest of the partygoers. Or perhaps that is just Sherlock, as John looks rather like he is enjoying himself, despite his lack of participation.

“So, explain to me again what we are doing here,” he asks his glowering friend cheerfully, sipping his second…third…glass of good vintage champagne.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growls, as if that is adequate explanation.

“You never do what Mycroft wants. Out with it.”

“This is the annual charity gala he hosts with his…lady companion.”

John nearly spits out his champagne. “Mycroft’s got a lady companion? Mycroft’s got any companion?”

"Horrifyingly, yes. They have a long-standing arrangement.”

Of course, an arrangement. The Holmes men certainly wouldn’t go in for anything so unappetizingly normal as an actual relationship. Or a marriage. “That still doesn’t explain how he managed to get you here.”

“Apparently the Lady de Corataine has been feeling rather put out that none of his family ever attends the event. In the interest of domestic peace he requested that I come this year.”

“Uh huh. And what did he say would happen if you refused his request?”

“I was to be put on every terrorist watch list from here to Istanbul, as well as anonymously reported to HMRC for an audit.”

“Have you ever even done your taxes?”

There is no response.

“I won’t even go into how profoundly screwed up it is that your family’s version of ‘please come to my party’ involves illegal threats and tax evasion. That takes care of you, what about me?”

Sherlock digs in his pocket for a crumpled invitation, embossed on expensive stationary. “ ‘Mister Sherlock Holmes & Doctor John Watson are cordially invited…’ ” John reads. “Christ. He’ll be hyphenating our last names next.”

“Hope springs eternal in my brother’s ample bosom,” Sherlock says darkly.

John coughs and changes the subject. “So, this is Lady…de Corataine’s estate, I’m guessing… Impressive.”

“No.”

“Not impressive?”

“Not her house.”

“Oh. Well, then whose house are we in?”

Sherlock looks uncomfortable and stares at the parquet floor.

“No! You never did!” John had figured out that Sherlock’s family was well-off a long time ago. One didn’t get a taste for custom suits, £2,000 coats, or hundred-year-old bottles of wine from a middle class upbringing. Still, this went beyond well-off and into the aristocracy. “You grew up _here_? This is out of a Jane Austen novel!”

“Mycroft isn’t the first Holmes to control the dealings of several major world governments. Money and land tend to be a side effect of such things. Please, John, I would really prefer not to discuss it.”

John decides Sherlock is suffering enough for one evening. “All right, but we are talking about this later.”

Sherlock sniffs and goes back to observing the crowd. After a few moments he perks up visibly. “Oh, interesting,” he breathes.

“What?”

“Nothing, John. I’ll…be right back.”

“Enjoy yourself. I’m tired of standing here. I’m going to go meet some people.”

Sherlock looks askance at him. “People? What people?”

“Any of the two hundred other people in this room, Sherlock,” John replies with a tolerant sigh. “Maybe I can find some old money of my own.”

Sherlock is unamused and slips into the crowd without a word. He works his way silently to the other side of the dance floor, carefully watching a much-decorated older man talking in a group near his brother. He goes over, introduces himself and speaks to the man briefly, emerging from the conversation with a smug smile. He glances back and spots John engaged in conversation with several women, one quite a bit older than him, all wearing off the shoulder dresses and laughing – laughing! – at something he is saying.

Sherlock makes a quiet noise of disgust and goes to present himself to his host. Might as well get it over with.

Mycroft is insufferable while his companion looks distant but pleased. Sherlock kisses her hand absently and she remarks how charming Mycroft’s baby brother is, so much more than he’s described.

“Give it time, my dear,” Mycroft says dryly. “Nice to see you, Sherlock. Where’s John?”

“Flirting,” Sherlock says grimly, flicking his eyes briefly across the room. “Mycroft, your ear?”

“Excuse me,” Mycroft tells the lady, and steps aside with Sherlock who whispers something to him with barely restrained excitement. “Excellent. I’ll take care of it straight away. Do try the dessert.”

When Sherlock reaches John he still has three women, all out of his league, vying for his attention. Sherlock supposes it is the formalwear – John looks good in a tux.  Sherlock dispatches his friend’s hangers-on with a quick, icy glare and, snatching an entire tray of delicate pastries off a waiter, collapses into a chair next to John.

“Thanks for that,” John says dryly.

“Oh, like you were going to get off with a countess. I did you a favour. Pastry?”

“Countess? Well, might have done, you never know.” Sherlock gives him a look that says that he most certainly does know, and John ignores him. “And why do you suddenly look so pleased with yourself?”

“Oh, I just informed my brother that Sir Robert over there has been funnelling Ministry of Defence funding not to the domestic anti-terrorism project he’s been appointed to supervise but to a rather lavish vacation home in southern Spain. And a rather young Spanish gentleman who attends him there.”

“I’m quite certain your brother did not invite you to this party so you could out his guests as embezzlers and adulterers,” John tells him, rolling his eyes. There is a pause. “No, that’s _exactly_ why he invited you here, isn’t it? One day you will have to tell me about your childhood…it must have been so carefree.”

Sherlock snorts, turns his attention to the dance floor and sighs. “Tedious. You dance, John?”

“I have. I can’t say it went particularly well. Not really my area.”

“Nonsense, even these vapid, empty headed, inbred ninnies can manage it, I’m sure you could probably pick it up.” John looks doubtful, which Sherlock appears to take as a challenge. He discards the pastries and stands, put-upon, and holds out his arm. “I’ll show you.”

John looks at him, mildly horrified. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Absolutely not. I was classically trained for this type of mind-blowingly purposeless activity. I really shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

“You’re testing me aren’t you? This is a test.”

Sherlock sighs. “John, I am bored. We’re at a dance. The only thing to _do_ is dance. Think very carefully about the list of things I might decide to occupy myself with at a party like this if I have no one to dance with before you make your decision.”

“This is blackmail.”

“Technically, it would be closer to extortion. Come on, it’s an easy waltz, you’ll pick it up in no time.”

John sometimes wonders if he is actually capable of saying no to Sherlock. If he is, it appears he’s not going to find out tonight. For no reason he can think of, he allows himself to be led to the dance floor. “Arm on my shoulder, hand here,” Sherlock orders, placing John's hand in one of his and planting his other firmly on John’s back. “Try not to lead. Let’s give Mycroft a thrill.”

John is aware of a few stares and whispers around them, but not as many as he had feared. Not that it matters. He’s not likely to see any of these people ever again, and attempting to maintain a sane, heterosexual identity around Sherlock has proved to be fruitless. He gives in, and tries not to be too clumsy.

Sherlock keeps his body a respectable distance from John’s, but sweeps him along smoothly, telegraphing every step. He’s right, it really is simple when your partner knows what he’s doing. And Sherlock definitely knows what he’s doing. He dances with an easy, careless grace, like he’s been doing this his whole life. All John has to do is follow. That’s all John ever has to do, really.

Sherlock’s suit is perfectly tailored, and orders of magnitude more expensive than John’s rented one. It accentuates his tallness, nipping in perfectly at his slender waist while managing to highlight his broad shoulders. His hair is tamed for once, curls shiny and neat against his head. He looks like the product of a bygone era, suave and polished. At some point John stops thinking about how uncomfortable dancing with his flatmate in front of society elite is, stops worrying about people talking, and sees only him as they glide across the dance floor, inches away, touching, and yet somehow still unreachable.

“Not bad, John,” Sherlock whispers. “But stand straighter.”

John obeys and feels the change immediately, the smoothing of the rough edges of his steps as they twirl and spin, tails pinwheeling behind them. He feels caught up in an enchantment, like none of this is real, like they exist alone in a private bubble and everyone else is just decoration. He suddenly feels a little lightheaded and misses a step. Sherlock pulls him a bit closer, arm like iron around him, holding him up.

Sherlock’s eyes are half closed, listening to the music, and he wears a small smile of contentment on his face. He seems happy and, moreover, peaceful, which is not an emotion John has learned to associate with him. They are too close now, John can smell him, can feel the blood pumping into his hands and his warm breath on John’s cheek. It’s too intimate, changing the dance from a simple quirk of Sherlock’s into something that might have another meaning, and it spooks John, brings him back to the reality of where he is and what they have been doing.

Before John can balk, the song ends, the spell is broken, and Sherlock releases him and bows, slightly sardonically. “Well done. Now you can try that with a countess. Excuse me.” Before John can respond, Sherlock vanishes.

John feels his face is hot, and must be quite red, and exits the dance floor as quickly as propriety will allow, downing two more glasses of champagne on his way. He has no idea what just happened, and he spots Mycroft making his way purposefully towards him. Absolutely not. He is not going to have that conversation with Mycroft, not now and preferably not ever.

He leaves the ballroom and after a few wrong turns in the huge mansion, manages to find an exit, though it’s not the one they came in. He is in some kind of courtyard. There are stables in front him. Actual stables, with, he imagines, actual Thoroughbred horses in them. It’s not hard to find Sherlock, leaning morosely behind the stables, smoking.

It’s a sharp November night, full moon out, and his breath turns to a cloud in the air. John approaches Sherlock with studied nonchalance, trying to hide his awkwardness. “I suppose you ride, too.”

“Of course I ride,” Sherlock snaps. “I ride, I dance, I play polo, I speak French, I choose wine, and I know the difference between an ascot and a cravat.” His voice is surprisingly bitter.

“I would have thought you would have deleted all that information,” John says. “Polo’s not much use to a detective.”           

“Don’t think I haven’t tried. Unfortunately, some memories are rather stubborn. The last time I was on a dance floor…” he trails off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Seriously, Sherlock, what was that? Were you just trying to fuck with people? Experimenting to see what I would do?” He does not say, _Or were you just jealous and trying to mark your territory in front of everyone?_

Sherlock glances at John. “Neither. I felt like dancing. I haven’t done it in a long time. You were the only person there who was not completely odious to me. It made sense at the time. Did I embarrass you?”

John sighs and snatches the cigarette out of his hand, tossing it to the ground. “No, Sherlock. It’s fine. You’re… quite a good dancer.”

“I know,” Sherlock says miserably.

“Well, none of us can escape our upbringing, not really,” John says, patting him on the arm carefully. “Family parties always seem to bring out the best in people. You’re smoking, I’m drunk…let’s go home before someone ends up in tears, shall we?”

Home. John says it without thinking, then regrets it. Technically, Sherlock is home. What a home life this must have been, too, so privileged. And yet Sherlock has done his best to disassociate himself with nearly every aspect of it.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the slip, and gives John a half smile, ruefully. “Wise as always, John,” he says, wrapping his coat more tightly around himself. “Here, if we go this way we can avoid going through the house.”

John follows Sherlock through dimly lit, perfectly manicured gardens. He doesn’t believe for a second asking him to dance represented only a simple whim on Sherlock’s part, but knows he’s not likely to get more than that out of the detective unless he decides to share. It doesn’t matter, really, just one more thing to add to the strangeness that has become his life. At least, as long as he can avoid thinking about how quickly his heart was beating when he was in Sherlock’s arms.


	2. Chapter 2

“Pitiable,” Sherlock comments, as they watch the reunion between the young lawyer and his pretty wife. She has thrown her arms around him and is weeping, murmuring in his ear as he strokes her hair.

“I was just thinking it was quite nice, actually,” John replies mildly.

Sherlock snorts. “Oh yes, lovely. He’s lied to her extensively, lost their life savings gambling, put himself in hock to dangerous criminals, endangered her and her children through his folly, and left them on the brink of financial ruin that will take years to recover from. But she welcomes him back with kisses and tender words because she _loves_ him. You’re right, pitiable is the wrong word. Damnable is better.”

“You know, sometimes…” John shakes his head. “Oh, just forget it.” He turns and walks away. 

Sherlock follows, unwilling to let go of his bone. “Is that what you want, John?” he challenges. “Some sweet young brunette to come home to, to tell you all your sins are forgiven no matter how foolish or reprehensible you’ve been?”

John stops and glares at him. “You know, I can actually think of worse things. But apparently you can’t.” He continues walking to the main road, where the taxi is waiting.

Sherlock waves off his comment. “Oh, never mind, John. It doesn’t matter. I only took this case because things were so unbearably dull – Lestrade would have solved it in another day or two on his own. Maybe our subject would have been short a couple of digits, but at least he’d have learned his lesson. Shall we get food?”

John sighs irritably. “You know, I think I’m just going to go down the pub. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson can do you something for tea if you ask nicely.” He abruptly changes direction and strides away purposefully, leaving Sherlock standing by the taxi, utterly shocked. It is so rare that John won’t follow him, and usually it’s only when he has committed some egregious error, such as admitting to not caring about human suffering. He didn’t think his comments about relationships qualified for that level of reprobation, but perhaps they do.

He broods in the taxi on the way home, not so much as to when or whether John will return – John always returns – but about what could have made him so touchy in this case. John barely dated any more anyway, a fact that Sherlock couldn’t deny he’d had a hand in.

But John didn’t seem to miss it much and, with the exception of Sarah, he’d never really seemed to care about his girlfriends. He just liked to have one, like it was an accessory that proved he was a normal, red blooded male. Sherlock pretended not to remember who they were, to aggravate them, but John actually did have trouble keeping track of them. It was best all around that he seemed to have weaned himself off the habit.

At home Sherlock is restless and aimless. This case had done little to distract from the overwhelming boredom of the past few weeks, and John’s crankiness has put him even further off. Mrs. Hudson has left him a cold tea – the sort of cheap luncheon meats and cheese he despises, with passable bread – and he makes a sandwich resentfully.

He rattles about the flat for awhile, unable to settle on a task even though he has the elements of several experiments waiting for him in the fridge. He checks his usual hiding spots from habit and is unsurprised to find them empty. He could do with some stimulation but is unable to get up the willpower to go out and obtain anything worthwhile. Plus, if John is already upset with him, being high when he gets home probably wouldn’t help the situation.

At last he settles in a chair by the fire with a treatise on the synthesis of novel toxins that he’s been meaning to read and forces himself to focus on it. John is gone longer than he anticipates, and he wonders if he’ll even be back that night. The mean time for him to be out after an episode like this is 3.5 hours, and sometimes he’ll spend the night away, but Sherlock doesn’t know of any current lady friends who might take pity on him. If he’s desperate enough to bunk with Stamford, then it’s serious indeed.

Finally, shortly after three am, John stumbles through the door. He’s been drinking, more than just his usual few pints while watching the football. There’s whiskey on his breath, Sherlock can smell it from across the room.

“You’re still up,” John says flatly.

“Of course I’m up, I’m usually up.” Sherlock doesn’t look up from his text. “Is that a problem?”

 John doesn’t reply, but comes over to the dying fire and sits on the floor, staring at the embers.

 After a long silence Sherlock asks, “Are you feeling quite well, John?”

 John shakes his head. “I don’t know what was wrong with me today, Sherlock. I’m sorry, I overreacted. Just sometimes you can be so… I don’t know. I should be used to it. I don’t know why it got to me today.”

 Sherlock raises an eyebrow and closes his book. “Don’t mention it. It’s…fine.” He stands and offers John a hand up. “I think perhaps we should both get some rest.”

John accepts the hand, but sways once on his feet and Sherlock has to steady him. Without a word, Sherlock puts an arm around him and begins helping him up the stairs. This is worrying. John likes his beer, but is almost never intoxicated to the point of incapacity.

They reach the door of John’s room and John leans against the frame.

“John, if something's wrong…” Sherlock begins, uncomfortably. John is flushed from the alcohol, and looks oddly vulnerable standing there, a little dishevelled and unfocused.

John shakes his head. “Just a bad day. Nothing more.” He makes no move to go to bed and neither does Sherlock.

Sherlock is aware of a sudden tension between them, one that has occasionally made an appearance before but never so strongly. He is overtired, he thinks, and John is drunk. That’s all it is. And yet the colour in John’s cheeks, the dim hall light catching in his sandy hair, the curve of his lips… suddenly it is all very appealing, drawing him in, fascinating him. He tries to repress the urge, as he does with all such urges and has done for years. Urges, he has learned, are dangerous and distracting. But this one won’t be silenced, and John won’t stop looking at him like he is waiting for something to happen.

Before Sherlock quite knows what he is doing, he is leaning forward, pressing his lips to John’s with too much pressure, hard and unpractised, and made awkward by a complete lack of response from John. He breaks it off, still tasting salt and whiskey, and draws back, not sure where to look.

John swallows and takes a deep breath. Sherlock expects anger and disgust, but gets neither. “Did you just…?”

“I wanted to know what it felt like,” Sherlock breathes, appalled at himself.

John nods slowly, processing and apparently coming to the conclusion that he is in no condition to cope with this at the moment. “Right,” he says at last, matter-of-factly. “Okay then. Goodnight, Sherlock.” He goes into his room and shuts the door without another word.

Sherlock is left in the hall, humiliated and furious at himself. He hasn’t given in to his desires on such a scale since uni, and with his flatmate of all people. He almost would have preferred John to push him away, tell him off, hit him even. The non-reaction was worse, somehow. He dreads what might come in the morning. Would John move out? Perhaps he wouldn’t even remember it, Sherlock hopes, but knows that’s unlikely.

When he can collect himself enough to move, he goes out and finds one of the few remaining dealers he can trust who Lestrade has not put behind bars. He purchases a few grams of the highest quality, returns home, and carefully prepares his seven percent solution using his own personal, meticulously sterilised tools.

The ritual calms him somewhat. He twirls the syringe in one hand, mesmerised, but makes no move to inject it. He sits on his bed like this until dawn, then discards the syringe in the back bins, but hides the remaining powder very well indeed. He is sure to be out of the flat before John rises.


	3. Chapter 3

John does not move out. John does not try to have a serious conversation with him about his feelings. John, mercifully, tries his hardest to act like absolutely nothing out of the ordinary has happened between them. Of course he is not entirely successful, as nothing is more awkward than someone trying to pretend that they don’t feel awkward at all, but Sherlock is grateful.

He was being foolish, a momentary lapse in judgement. He’s quite satisfied with life as he’s chosen it, and if he did decide he suddenly needed gratification he certainly would know better than to attempt to get it from his straight best friend. But suppressing any sexual desire has proved to be the simplest path for him since secondary school and he sees no reason why that should change now. The few notable exceptions in the past only proved the rule.

A few days pass in which the awkwardness begins to ebb. Sherlock starts to relax. On Monday, late afternoon, he gets a call from Lestrade, positively music to his ears after one of the dullest months he can remember.

“John!” he hollers. “Get your coat, there’s a body in the morgue with our name on it!”

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m right here,” John answers from a few feet away. “Anyway, I can’t go with you, I have a date tonight.”

“A what?” Sherlock is incredulous.

“You heard me.”

“But you haven’t had a date in months…since what’s-her-name.”

“Nancy. And that could very possibly be the point of me having one now.”

“Well, cancel. The coroner says the ligature marks on the body are like nothing he’s seen before. I need you to look at them.”

John can feel the lure of the puzzle begin to wind its way into his thoughts but he puts his foot down. “I’m not cancelling. Take some pictures, I’ll look at them in the morning.”

“The morning?”

John colours.

“Oh, I see what this is all about.” Sherlock says maliciously. “You just need a shag! Well, you can do that any time. This is more important.”

“Not to me,” John retorts angrily. “And it’s not _just_ that, although, alright, I could do with one. I like this girl. And I need something more than just murder and intrigue and late night chases in my life.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what normal people have!” John yells, exasperated. “Christ, you’re selfish.”

“I never claimed to be otherwise,” Sherlock notes. “But why do you care what normal people have?”

“Because I am one.”

“No, you’re not. You never have been.”           

John sighs, suddenly tired. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want some normal things once in awhile. Living with you is like being caught up in a bubble of insanity, and it’s fun and exciting and dangerous, but sometimes I need to remind myself that that’s not what most of life is actually like.”

“So, you’re just biding time with me until you can acquire the elements of a normal life?” Sherlock hisses. “A nubile girl who can shag you silly and bake pies and be a good wife, a house in the country, a private practice you can close up at six on the dot every day, a couple of tow-headed children? Oh, you’ll still come out on cases for a lark now and then, invite me round for Christmas dinner, but you’ll have a nice respectable life, the retired soldier, the country doctor, that no one could ever possibly object to!”

John is first shocked at his venom, then furious. “Where do you get off? This is just one date, what the hell is your problem? Did you actually think I was never going to see anyone ever again? That I’d spend the rest of my life following you around and never having relationships or a career or anything but solving crimes and blogging? A desire for a balanced existence doesn’t mean I’m going to run off and desert you tomorrow, you massive prat! Though if you keep acting like this every time I show an interest in anything else, I just might!”

Sherlock recoils. “John—”

“No. We’re done now.” John grabs his coat off the hook and pockets his mobile. “Good luck with your corpse, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John stalks out, leaving Sherlock fuming in the sitting room. He is horrified by his own emotional display, unsure of what made him act that way. Usually his tactic for dealing with John’s dates is to primarily ignore them, with a little light mocking of John’s desire for a relationship, and quiet torture of the women if they make it to the stage where John has to bring them round.

Why should Sherlock begrudge John a little relief here and there, provided it doesn’t get serious? Living with him when he’s frustrated isn’t particularly pleasant, and Sherlock understands that most people need an outlet of some kind, even if he has managed quite well for years without one. Granted, this was interfering with a case, but he should have just let it go this time.

Sherlock slams his hand on the table, and, finding that unsatisfying, overturns it violently, sweeping glassware off the counter as well and hurling a tea mug against the wall, watching it shatter against the wall and leave little bits of ceramic embedded in the paper. It doesn’t help.

Reluctantly, he goes down to the morgue. He barely hears Molly’s chattering as he examines the body. The marks on the throat are certainly unique, but he’s lost his taste for this case. He takes pictures and measurements mechanically and leaves quickly, not wishing to return to the flat but not having any better ideas.

John returns home just a bit after midnight, and is unsurprised to see the light on in Sherlock’s room through the kitchen. He had hoped to sneak up to his room undetected, but of course Sherlock hears him.

“Back so soon?” Sherlock’s in the darkened kitchen and John can’t make him out.

“If you must know, yes. For some strange reason I seemed to be off my game tonight. How was the cadaver?”

“Dull,” Sherlock lies. He stumbles into the sitting room and John finally gets a good look at him. He’s in his dressing gown, hair a tangle, eyes bloodshot, twitching.

John swears. “You’re lit! Jesus, Sherlock, I thought we’d had done with this.” He rushes over to his friend and performs a quick assessment. “Well, you’re high as a kite but at least you’re not in any immediate danger. Here, you need water.”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock says angrily, but John goes into the kitchen and flips on the light. He swears again at the damage from Sherlock’s earlier fit, but fills one of the remaining intact glasses from the tap and attempts to guide Sherlock into a chair.

Sherlock shrugs him off and knocks the glass to the floor. “I don’t need your help, I’m not a child!”

“No, you’re a drug addict!” John snaps.

“I have it completely under control.”

“Oh, obviously. Just sit down, will you?”

“No.” Sherlock looms over John, shaking with the effects of the drugs and rage. “I am sick of being handled!”

“Handled?”

“Handled, managed! Mycroft, Lestrade, you, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t think I don’t know that you all talk about how to deal with me, how to keep me out of trouble, how to keep me clean. I hear you whispering to each other. ‘Do you think he’ll do it? Better keep an eye on him. Search the flat. He’s being unreasonable. He can’t be trusted.’ You all treat me like a problem child. I know Mycroft has you monitoring me, I know you meet with him when you think I'm not watching. You’re no better than he is!”

“You’re paranoid,” John dismisses.

“Yes, but am I wrong?”

“Have you ever thought it’s because we worry about you? Because we _care_ about you?”

Sherlock snorts. “Oh please. Mycroft only worries about my bringing undying shame to the family and messing up his little political schemes. Mrs. Hudson is a foolish old woman who misses her children and mistakes me for one of them. Lestrade has to keep me alive because he’d be lost without me. Don’t confuse any of that for caring, John.”

“Mycroft may be a cold-hearted bastard with a twisted way of showing it, but he loves you,” John tells him quietly. “Mrs. Hudson adores you, and Greg was the one who helped you get clean in the first place, before you ever solved a case for him. He cares about you.”

“It’s touching that you think that, really John. But you're mixing up obligation with affection.”

John shakes his head. “And what about me, Sherlock? Why am I here, then?”

“Your life was boring, I gave you something to do. You’re attracted to danger, I provide it.”

That stings. John turns abruptly and walks away from him, to the limits of the room, and puts a hand to his temple, staring blankly at the patterned wallpaper before him. “Yes, Sherlock. The only reason I’m here is for the excitement. I put up with all your shite and your moods and your insufferable arrogance just for the fun of it. I don’t care about you at all. Fuck off.”

“You think you care about me, but you just care about what I do for you. And one day you’ll find something better to do and that will be the end of it. You’ll go just like everyone else.”

“You’re cruel when you’re high, did you know that?” John asks bitterly. “And stupider than usual. It’s like you’re trying to get rid of me just to prove I don’t care about you. And as tempting as it is to give you your way, I’m not going anywhere unless you keep acting like such an incredible arsehole that I have no other choice.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, then slowly comes up behind him and puts his hands on John’s shoulders. “You care about me?” he asks hoarsely.

“Of course I do,” John whispers. “Why do you think I hate this so much? Seeing you like this.”

Without warning, Sherlock shoves John roughly into the wall, pressing himself against John. John lets it happen. He doesn’t know why, but he lets it happen. He feels Sherlock’s breath hot on his cheek as he whispers into John’s ear, “Say you’re not going to leave me.”

John closes his eyes. He knows he should stop this. Sherlock isn’t in his right mind, wild-eyed and horny and out of control. He can feel Sherlock’s erection hard on the small of his back, hands on his chest, crossing well beyond any lines they’ve approached before. He doesn’t reply.

In a swift movement, Sherlock  grabs his wrists and pins them to the wall above his head with one hand. “Say you’re not going to leave me!” he growls.

John doesn’t resist. “I’m not going to leave you.”

Sherlock sniffs the back of his neck, like a predator scenting his prey. “Say you’re mine.”

The warmth of Sherlock’s body seeps into John and he can feel the tension in every fibre of the detective, can feel his own body responding despite himself, can feel his remaining resistance slipping away. This is wrong, this is bad, he tells himself, willing himself to stop it. But a part of him doesn’t want to, even when he feels Sherlock’s free hand moving down his chest, to his stomach and lower.

“No,” he manages.

“Say you’re mine, John,” Sherlock repeats, his hand reaching John’s belt and struggling to get inside his trousers. “Say it.”

John takes a deep breath. “No,” he says again, forcefully, twisting easily out of Sherlock’s grip and shoving him backwards. Sherlock stumbles, falls to the floor, and stays there, unmoving.

John takes a moment to compose himself, then kneels beside his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock will not look at him. “I can’t,” he says. “I’m sorry, but this…this is wrong.” He permits himself the momentary indulgence of stroking Sherlock’s curls, now slicked to his head with sweat. “Please, just let me help you now. Please, Sherlock.” He is almost begging but he doesn’t care.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but allows John to hoist him to his feet and help him to his bedroom, to tuck him in to his bed, to take his pulse and smooth his hair off his forehead. John kneels by his bedside. The last thing Sherlock hears before he passes into blissful unconsciousness is John telling him, “You didn’t make me say it. I won’t leave you.”

When Sherlock wakes, John is sitting on the floor slumped against the side of his bed, fast asleep. He cringes as the memory of the previous night comes back to him. He is ashamed of his actions, and puzzled by them. He doesn’t understand the things he does lately. It’s like he has no control over himself when it comes to John. Even now, sober in the light of day, he has to repress the urge to run his hand through John’s hair.

John stirs and wakes as he thinks it, blinking the sleep from his eyes and looking up at him blearily. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods. “John, I… I owe you an apology…”

“No. I mean, you didn’t know what you were doing. Let’s just leave it, okay?”

Sherlock is somehow both relieved and disappointed. He stretches and gets out of bed, retrieving his violin from the top of his dresser and beginning to play almost absently, attempting to soothe his frayed nerves. John closes his eyes and leans his head back, listening with obvious pleasure.

After a moment he says, “I think I know this piece.”

“Schubert,” Sherlock tells him, continuing to play, trying to lose himself in the music to erase the shame of the night before.

“Mmm. We danced to this, didn’t we? At Mycroft’s party.” John says it straightforwardly, as it if it is neither good nor bad, just a memory they share. 

Sherlock stops abruptly and puts the violin down. “I think I could do with a shower.”

John gives him a measuring look but doesn’t comment. “Why don’t I make some breakfast and then you can tell me all about this new case?”

“The case.” Sherlock had forgotten about it, but is now glad for something to take both their minds off the incidents of the previous evening. “Yes. Of course.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock shows John the photographs from the night before. “Any idea what made those?” The victim is a woman, middle aged, with nothing peculiar about her. “She was found in a warehouse in Barbican, hanging upside down by her feet, but she was clearly strangled with some force.”

John is intrigued. The throat of the woman in the picture is covered, from chin to collarbone, in an unusual diamond shaped pattern, etched into the flesh. “I have no idea what could have made those marks. Some kind of netting, maybe?”

Sherlock nods. “I haven’t been able to match it to anything yet, but that would be my guess.”

“Awfully awkward way to strangle someone, when a rope or wire would do.”

“Yes, there must be some meaning in it for the murderer. This stinks of a serial killer.”

“Did you find out who she is?”

“Mary Boswick, 58, of Enfield. School teacher. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary or suspicious about her existence. She appears to have been chosen at random.”

“DNA evidence? Anything?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Completely clean. Someone took care.” It feels good to get back to work together, helps erase some of the memory of recent events between them. He and John are at their best like this, and this promises to be an interesting case. He can’t hide his glee completely, and John doesn’t even chide him for it. He is relieved as well. Both men just want to go back to normal.

They throw themselves into the case. It’s not long before another body turns up, in Greenwich. A retired social worker from Wokingham. She had been killed nearly a week previous, same strange marks on her throat, same M.O. in every way. The case had ended up in a different division and no one had thought to call Sherlock until Lestrade got wind of it.

“Who murders a 94 year old?” John asks. “And what was she doing in Greenwich?”

“93. She was 93, almost 94,” Sherlock corrects.

“Okay. Still, does it matter?”

“It might.” He steeples his fingers.

The case drags out. Sherlock is unable to figure out exactly what the murder weapon is, or if it has any actual significance. Similar murders continue to crop up every few days, but with no real predictability of time. Locations seem completely random, scattered throughout the greater London area. All the bodies are found hanging upside down in abandoned buildings after having been strangled. The only other consistent fact is that they are all female, and the victims are growing progressively younger. The latest one is just eight and half.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock growls. They’ve been at it for weeks now, both are running short of sleep and patience. “He’s not acting like a normal serial killer. He has no type, except female. What kind of killer goes from old ladies to children? They have favourites, types, patterns. The killings are highly ritualistic but not at all religious in nature. He doesn’t leave any traces. Serial killers are always show-offs, they always want to be found, or at least gloat a little over the police. It’s part of the thrill. They play games.”

“Maybe this one…isn’t?” John suggests, yawning. “I’m going to make more coffee.”

“No…no! He is playing a game, but it’s not with us. It’s with himself. Something’s wrong here…we’ve been looking at this wrong. John, get me a list of all the victims' home addresses and ages. Exact ages!” He jumps up and pulls several large maps of London off the bookcase and spreads them out on the floor, muttering to himself. When John brings him the addresses, he begins to mark them on the map in red, while muttering to himself.

“93, 58, 35, 22…Wokingham, Enfield, Gravesend, Croyton… 1.618034… _no_ … 0.618034…”

“Sherlock?”

“Don’t you see, John?” He connects the dots on the map and they slowly curve in on themselves.

“I’ve seen that before,” John mutters.

“Of course you have, everyone’s seen it before,” Sherlock snaps. “It’s a golden spiral, a spiral that gets further from its origin by a factor of 1.618034 for each quarter turn it makes. Or, since he started at the outside, one that decreases in distance from the origin by a factor of 0.618034 for every quarter turn. We’re looking for some kind of mathematician!”

“I don’t understand…he chose his victims based on where they lived?”           

“Yes, mathematically selecting addresses to create a nearly perfect golden spiral. But he didn’t stop there, that’s why the ages are decreasing in such an odd way as well. They get younger by the same factor as the spiral gets smaller! The conjugate of the golden ratio! God, it’s so simple! But why?”

“Wait, so that means the next one will be…”

 Sherlock does some quick measurements. “From Ilford, somewhere close to Wanstead Park Road. A five year old. Five years, three months, approximately.”

 John looks sick. “Jesus.”

“Call Lestrade. Hopefully the police can find the child before the killer does, because once he has her he could take her anywhere. There’s no pattern to the location of where the bodies are found. Why is there no pattern? A mind like this needs patterns, order, rhythms!”

“Where are you going?”

“The centre! That’s where the killer lives. Newham, off Cumberland road. Catch up when you can.”

Sherlock is out the door before John can even dial the Yard. It takes awhile to explain the solution, and by the time he loads his Sig and gets a taxi, he’s a good fifteen minutes behind Sherlock. He texts him furiously and at last receives an address – 12 Gardner Road – but nothing more.

It takes nearly half an hour in late afternoon traffic to get there. It’s a row house, nothing remarkable, dark inside. The door is ajar, and John enters carefully, weapon drawn. The downstairs is deserted.

“Sherlock?” John calls softly.

“Upstairs.”

John makes his way up the stairs cautiously. The light is on in the first room on the right, and Sherlock is sitting on the floor, back against the open door. John gasps.

A man in his fifties lies dead on the floor, his brains blown against the wall, presumably by the gun that has fallen next to him. A little girl is against the opposite wall, strangled, but with clear hand marks around her throat instead of the now-familiar diamond pattern of the other victims. She is flecked with her killer’s blood.

John has to close his eyes and swallow so as not to vomit. He kneels beside his friend, texting Lestrade to come immediately. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It was like this when I got here. It doesn’t make sense. Why break his pattern now? Why do it in the first place. There is no sense to it, no note explaining. Why bring her here? Why use his hands? Why kill himself with a gun before his pattern was complete? What was this all about? I can’t even ask him.

With difficulty, John stops himself from screaming at Sherlock for his coldness, for being upset about the wrong things. He knows him well enough now to understand that while he may be genuinely obsessed with the puzzle, he is not unaffected by the scene before him. Sherlock Holmes, master of displacement.

“Maybe he knew we were closing in on him, got rushed?” John suggests.

“He couldn’t have done. We weren’t even close to him until an hour ago, and this is at least three hours old. I thought we had more time! I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either.”

They wait in silence for the police, give their statements grimly, and share a taxi home. Neither speaks. When they reach Baker Street, Sherlock sheds his coat and makes straight for his bedroom. John catches his arm.

“Hey. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine, John,” he says numbly. “Aren’t I always?”

“Yeah, that’s what worries me,” John mutters, but lets him go.

John makes himself a strong coffee. He doesn’t think he wants to sleep tonight, even though he’s been short on rest for weeks now. And he’s concerned about Sherlock’s reaction. He doesn’t take losing well at the best of times, and this is a particularly ugly ending to a long and gruelling chase. John feels like he should stand watch, somehow, even though he doesn’t expect Sherlock to come out of his room again that night, and possibly not for several days.

John plays around on his laptop, but doesn’t have the heart to write up this case, both because of the sheer magnitude of the loss and Sherlock’s ultimate failure, despite his brilliance. It grows later and later and John begins to reconsider his decision to forgo sleep. As he is contemplating putting his head down on the kitchen table, he hears a thump from Sherlock’s room.

Instantly alert, he jumps up and runs to the door. “Sherlock? Sherlock are you all right?” He tries the doorknob. It’s locked. Fear chokes his throat. “Sherlock, answer me or I’m breaking this door down right now!”

He hears a faint moan and puts his shoulder to the door, which gives relatively easily under his strength. Sherlock is on the floor at the foot of his bed, shirtless, clearly just having fallen off it. The first thing John notices is the blood, quite a lot of blood, running down both his forearms. In fact this is the only thing John notices at first, despite the room being in complete and utter disarray, in opposition to its typical Zen-like order.

John goes to him, blinking back tears as he checks the detective over and helps him sit up. Sherlock is conscious, but disoriented. The wounds on his arms, three or four short cuts on each, aren’t deep, clearly made by the discarded razor blade on the floor next to him. They are fresh and bleeding profusely as shallow cuts tend to do. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asks. There is a glass of water near the bed and he dips the corner of the bed sheet into it and wipes away as much of the blood as he can.

Sherlock focuses on him. “Yes,” he manages, fuzzily.

“Sherlock, what happened? Why did you do this?”

“I wanted to feel something new. I wanted it to feel better.”

“This is better? Christ.” John finally is able to comprehend the mess around him. The telltale signs. Two different powders, several syringes, the rubber tubing around Sherlock’s arm. He knows Sherlock favours cocaine when he is bored or sad and heroin when his brain won’t shut down. It slowly dawns on John that the remaining, mostly full, syringe on the bed is filled with both, and the empty nearby probably had been as well. His heart stops.

“Sherlock, what did you take? Tell me!” John demands, shaking him. “I need you to tell me exactly what you took and how much.”

He doesn’t respond, but blinks in confusion.

“Sherlock, please tell me you didn’t just do a fucking speedball! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Any at all? Of course you do, you’re a genius, you know exactly how stupid and insane that is. Were you actually trying to kill yourself?”

“Not actually,” Sherlock says finally, his voice rough and halting. “The normal routine wasn’t working. I needed something more. I just needed something to feel good again.”

“And that didn’t work either so you thought, hey, why don’t I open some blood vessels and see how that feels?” John’s fear makes him angry. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, I can’t keep doing this with you! I did this with Harry, I can’t watch you do the same thing. Only at least Harry probably has a few more years before she successfully drinks herself to death, whereas you do this one, two more times and you’re pretty much done for. You know that Sherlock, you _know_ it!”

“Then by all means, John, don’t watch. I didn’t ask you to come in here, I didn’t want you to come in here.”

“Fuck you. What, I’m supposed to let you overdose and cut yourself and do whatever the hell you want until you die in here, then I can come in and clean up the mess?”

“I don’t see why you care so much.”

John is speechless with rage at Sherlock’s capacity for self-destruction. “You know what, you’re right. I don’t care. I care so little that maybe I’ll do exactly the same goddamn thing. I’m sure you won’t mind if I do.”

He snatches the bloody razor blade off the floor and swiftly slices a long, thin line in his forearm. Sherlock gasps as the blood blooms against John’s skin, shocked into momentary sobriety. “John—”

“No, Sherlock. It doesn’t matter, right? None of it matters.” He tears the rubber tube off Sherlock’s arm, hikes up his sleeve as far as it will go and ties off, grabbing the used needle off the bed and looking for a vein. “What happens to you, happens to me. I told you I’m not leaving you, and I can’t sit here watch you destroy yourself so I might as well fucking join you! Your blood, my blood, what the hell!”

John gets the syringe into the vein and manages to inject nearly a quarter of it before Sherlock wrests it out of his hand, blowing the vein and tossing the needle across the room. “No!” he yells, swaying with the effort of keeping himself sitting upright. “You can’t.”

John looks up at him, panting, already beginning to feel some effects. “Why not? If you can, I can!”

“I can’t lose you, John,” Sherlock whispers. “I can’t see you hurt.”

“I see you hurt every damn day. I can’t lose you either. If this is what you’re going to do to yourself then I’m coming with you and good luck stopping me!” He lunges towards the fallen syringe.

“No!” Sherlock grabs his arm. “No. I’ll stop. For good. Forever. I promise. Just…just don’t.”

They stare at each other wordlessly for a long moment, then John collapses back against him and they lay in a heap on the floor, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s chest. “Thank God.”

“Would you have really done it all?”

“Absolutely,” John says, deadly serious. “And I still will too, if you try a fucking stunt like this again. Shit, I don’t think I like this.”

“You didn’t do enough to make it feel good. Then too much feels bad again. Too much more and…well…”

John fumblingly checks Sherlock’s vital signs. “Your heart is too slow.”

“The cocaine’s worn off, it's just the heroin now. I need to stay awake.”

“Well, I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. Talk to me.”           

“About what?”

“Anything. We could start with why you wanted to do any of this.”

“I don’t… I don’t cope well with emotions. I never have. Drugs are easier. You take a set dose, it has a set effect. I’ve been feeling things lately, things I don’t like or understand, and now this case… I just wanted something that felt good. Something simple.”

Impulsively, John looks up at him and plants a wet kiss on his lips. “That’s simple. And it feels good.”

“No, John, I actually think that is rather complicated. Especially since we’re both high.”

John grins. “Woke you up though, didn’t it?”

Sherlock half-laughs, then yawns. “I’m so sleepy, John.”

John elbows him in the stomach. “No, no, no. Don’t make me kiss you again, I’m not sure either of us could handle that at this point.”

“I think I could manage it…” Sherlock slurs.

John pauses, then says. “Do you know what would be good?”

“Bed? Coffee? Sex? Not in that order.”

“Having an actual conversation about what the hell is going on between us when neither one of us is drunk, high, angry, or bleeding. Okay, maybe not good but more productive than fighting and then randomly assaulting each other whenever one of us is on a mind altering substance.”

Sherlock is silent and John begins to worry, both about him and about his own rapid heart rate. John can feel Sherlock’s chest moving up and down beneath his head, but it is slow and shallow. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Still with me?”

“Mm. Just thinking.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“Remember when we danced together?”

“Not something I'm liable to forget.”

“That was nice, wasn’t it?”

John smiles to himself. “You know what, it was actually very nice.”

“You weren’t drunk then.”

“No. No, I wasn’t. Later I was, but not then.”

“Good.” There is a pause. “John? I don’t think I can stay awake any longer.”

John checks his pupils and his breathing. “You’re okay,” he says. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock nods and drifts off quickly. John repositions himself so that he has an ear to Sherlock’s heart, listening to the blood pumping and rushing through the valves, still not as fast or strong as it should be but no longer worryingly depressed. John knows he won’t be able to stay awake much longer himself, and isn’t so much concerned about his own safety, as the amount he took was minimal and already passing through his system, but is afraid to leave Sherlock unmonitored. He tries desperately to keep his eyes open but his body, already overstressed from the case, refuses to obey him and in only a few minutes he is also asleep, still draped over his friend.

He wakes some hours later, startled to find himself on the floor with Sherlock until the memory comes back. It is still dark. He panics briefly until he can assure himself that Sherlock is only sleeping, deeply but naturally. With difficulty he gets up and goes into the bathroom. His hands and arms are covered in blood, both his own and Sherlock’s, and there is a wildly purpling bruise in the crook of his left elbow.

John is shocked by the recollection of his own recklessness last night, but realises he would do the exact same thing over again, a thousand times if he had to. The thought gives him an odd kind of perspective, and for the first time in weeks he feels very calm. He washes his arms and face and applies anti-bacterial ointment to the long cut.

Then he goes back into Sherlock’s room and manages to get him off the floor and into his bed. John cleans and tends Sherlock’s wounds as well, disposes of the remaining drugs and paraphernalia, and climbs into the big bed next to him, reluctant to leave him on his own. Throughout it all, Sherlock barely stirs.

John is quickly asleep again, and the next time he wakes sunlight is pouring through the back window and Sherlock is gone. John is briefly alarmed, but relaxes when he hears the sounds of human life stirring in the kitchen. He stumbles out of bed and into the next room, where he is greeted by Sherlock, a mug of tea, and two aspirin.

“You’ll need those,” Sherlock says curtly, and before John can even be amazed that his friend has made tea he realises he feels like he’s got the worst hangover of his life. He downs the tea and the pills and sits.

“How…do you feel?” John asks, suddenly shy about the night before.

“Worse than you, probably.” He doesn’t look it, except for being a bit paler than usual and having chapped lips from dehydration. He has showered and dressed, long sleeved shirt covering the marks from last night. “When you’re ready, we’re going out. There’s something I need to do and I want you to see it.”

John doesn’t ask, but nods quietly. “Just let me get changed.” He takes a quick rinse and pulls on clean clothes, then follows Sherlock out in to the streets, head pounding, without the will to ask where they are going.

They end up in a very unsavoury neighbourhood. Sherlock enters a large apartment building in a bad state of disrepair, and knocks on a door on the third floor. After some time, a skinny, unkempt young man answers and immediately swears. “Shit, it’s you! How do you know where I live?”

“The amount of things I know would likely cause your small brain to vaporise,” Sherlock drawls, pushing past him into the squalid flat. John follows, reluctantly.

The man is jumpy, nervous, and with good reason. The signs of dealing are everywhere, and it has just dawned on him that Sherlock may very well be an undercover policeman. “What are you doing here?” he demands, with false bravery. “That’s not how this works and you know it.”

Sherlock reaches in his pocket and hands him a wad of bills. “That’s 200 quid,” he says. “I don’t want you to sell to me anymore. Ever. For any reason. Do you understand?”

“Not…really, mate. You want to pay me money to not give you drugs? I have to say, that’s a new one on me.”

“Yes, I thought it might be. It’s really very simple. If you stop selling to me, you get to keep this nice stack of cash I’ve given you and you will have no trouble. If you do sell to me, my friend here will tell the police where you live and everything you’ve been doing – and I do mean _everything_ – and things will not go well for you. Do we have an understanding?”

The man looks bewildered and frightened, but nods and squirrels the money away in a jacket pocket. “Please leave now,” he tells them.

Sherlock proceeds to conduct roughly the same exchange five more times in various locations not too distant from their home. John doesn’t say a word the entire time. After the last one, Sherlock tells him, “That’s it. That’s everyone I’ve ever bought from.”

“So, you’re really serious. What you promised last night.”

“Weren’t you?”

“Yes, yes I was.”

“Then I have little choice. You know, at some point in the future I will probably hate you very much for this.”

“I’ll live.”

There is a pause. “I have to say, this not a method of rehab that I’ve heard of before,” Sherlock comments as they head back to the flat. “Threatening to join the patient in a downward spiral.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it would really work very well applied on a broad scale,” John deadpans and they both chuckle, more in relief than anything else.

When they arrive home, John collapses on the couch. “So. While we’re on to big life changes and both sober, shall we talk about the other thing now?”

“Other thing?”

John gives him a meaningful look.

“Oh. That…thing. Actually, I’d really rather not. I still consider myself married to my work. I don’t want more than that.”

John snorts. “Well, at least part of you does, and that part seems like it’s pretty determined to make a case for itself, so you’re going to have to deal with this sooner or later.”

“Don’t you understand? I don’t _want_ to want more! Lust, desire…other feelings. They are distracting and dangerous and pointless. I don’t want it and I don’t need it, and certainly not with you!”

“Thanks,” John mutters, hurt.

Sherlock manages to pick up on his tone and backpedals. “That’s not what I… I just meant I know you’re not like that…”

“Sherlock, I have no idea what I’m like any more,” John sighs. “And sometimes we don’t get to decide what we want. I’m sure everyone’s life would be a lot easier if we could all just feel the things we chose to feel. I know how I’ve been my whole life, but I also know that I feel good when you’re close to me, that I was terrified when I thought I was going to lose you, and that I…liked it when you kissed me. And the past two days have been too scary and insane for me to keep pretending those things aren’t true.”

Sherlock, for once, looks very surprised. “John, you have to understand, I –”

John puts up a hand. “I’m not asking you for anything, I’m not expecting anything, I don’t even know what I want, really. I just wanted you to know that… that it isn’t just you. If it happens again, I don’t want you to think you’re forcing yourself on me or something. I’m just as confused as you are here, but I don’t want you be ashamed or guilty about anything.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock says, looking miserable. "But… I just can’t. It doesn't matter what I want. I decided a long time ago that it was for the best and I just…I can’t… It just, it doesn’t work with me. It makes things worse and it’s better to…not…”

John stands, his heart breaking a little, and puts his hand bracingly on Sherlock's shoulder. “It’s fine, okay? Don’t worry about it. Just…be what you want to be, and I’ll be here no matter what. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Sherlock nods and swallows hard, trying to keep himself under control. He pulls away and John lets him go, and busies himself tidying up some clutter on the sitting room table. There has been a little too much intimacy and honesty in the past twenty-four hours for either of them to handle well, and both now feel uncomfortable at what they have shared, what they have admitted, both to each other and to themselves.

John senses Sherlock wants to bolt, and he kind of does as well, but neither makes a move. Instead Sherlock says, in something approaching a normal tone. “Any new prospects for cases, John?”

John clears his throat. “Actually, I haven’t checked yet today. But do you mind if we eat something first? I could do with some lunch, since we didn’t have breakfast.”

“Angelo’s?” Sherlock suggests. “There’s nothing in, I checked.”

“Sure. I’ll bring my laptop and we can see if there’s anything good while we eat.”

“Excellent plan.”

“Yeah, good. Lunch.” Normalcy is good, John tells himself, as they head out the door. They’ve made enough strides for one day and honestly he doesn’t know what the hell he was thinking when he said all those things to Sherlock. He meant them of course, he just had never had any intention of saying them. He hopes  fervently for a good case in his inbox, preferably one that didn’t involve murder or sex. A nice jewel theft, maybe.

Without another word, he dons his jacket and, laptop under one arm, follows Sherlock out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

A series of short, but interesting, cases come and go. Sherlock and John return to something approaching their normal dynamic, for which John is grateful. Then there is a lull. Sherlock grows bored and restive, beginning to chafe against his strict sobriety, alternately begging and ordering John to help him. John refuses his pleas with outward placidity, but begins to worry that if something doesn’t come up soon, Sherlock will take matters into his own hands.

He offers the occasional cigarette out of a mixture of guilt and pity, but is otherwise firm. He doesn’t drink much any more, either. Not that he ever did, really, but he knows an over indulgence on either of their parts will likely re-open a subject they seem to have silently agreed is best left alone. Not that there aren’t moments, for both of them, but they are largely able to ignore them and get on with life.

Still, John is relieved when Henry Knight’s case of the gigantic hound manages to grab Sherlock’s attention and take them to Dartmoor. He hopes the change of scenery will do them both good, although it doesn’t quite go as he had imagined.

“I had thought we were done with mind-altering substances,” John mutters as they board the train home.

“Hallucinogenic gas was hardly my idea,” Sherlock replies mildly.

“You’re the one who dosed me.”

“Technically, the laboratory dosed you.”

“Well, you thought you had done so it still counts. My _coffee_ , Sherlock. If there’s one thing a man should be able to trust, it’s that his friends aren’t attempting to poison his beverages. Or locking him up and running experiments on him when he’s unwittingly high out of his mind.”            

“Oh, are you on that again?” Sherlock says, but without venom, realizing he may still be on the wrong side of this argument, at least as far as his flatmate is concerned if not on the merits of the case.

When they reach home, Sherlock is unusually solicitous of John for several days. He had pushed John pretty far with this case and, at least for once, seems to actually have noticed. The comment about  Sherlock not having friends had hurt. It still stings, even though John is used to Sherlock’s casual cruelty when he is frustrated, to him lashing out when he is unsure. Even though at least part of it could be written up to whatever that drug had been and John knew, even at the time, that he hadn’t meant it.

Their relationship still confuses him, but the one thing John is certain he can call Sherlock Holmes, no matter what else happens, is his friend. He would always be his friend. To have Sherlock call that into question, even in a drug-induced fit, cuts him deeply even now, despite Sherlock’s almost sweetly atrocious efforts at apologizing without ever using the word “sorry”. The verbal gymnastics required to do this are, at the very least, entertaining.

The drugging, the locking John in the lab while he nearly lost his mind with fear to strange hallucinations, brought on partially by Sherlock himself – that John can get over more quickly. In fact, it nearly seems normal, although that is not going to stop John from giving Sherlock at least a little hell over it. He can’t be allowed to think that sort of behaviour is actually acceptable, even if John does ultimately tolerate it.

It is a pleasant spring evening. Sherlock is still flying from the Baskerville case, pleased with himself and with the world in general. There are several promising new requests in their queue to be sorted tomorrow, and John has made a superb roast chicken for tea and is now working on his write up about the “hound”. For a brief moment both men are reasonably content with themselves and their existence.

John’s typing has slowed to almost nothing in the warmth of the fire and the aftermath of the large meal. He finds himself in a cheerfully sleepy haze, staring at nothing in particular, and is pleased when Sherlock asks, “Would you like me to play for you, John?”

“Yes, thank you.” So Sherlock is still feeling guilty, John thinks, a little smugly. Or at least thinks John is still angry with him a bit, which amounts to the same thing in Sherlock’s mind. While he plays the violin often, both for his own sanity and John’s amusement, the only times he ever _asks_ specifically if John would like him to play for him is when he knows he’s done something wrong he should apologise for, but won’t, or when John is ill or injured.

Sherlock begins to play and John abandons all pretext of work, setting the laptop aside and listening to the tune, alternately haunting and delicate. “Is this… Brahms?” John asks after a moment, tentatively. He’s no expert but has been trying to learn to identify what Sherlock plays, particularly his favourite composers.

Sherlock gives him a brief smile of approval. “Violin concerto, second movement.”

John listens in silence for long minutes, content to lose himself in the music and to watch his friend, always elegant, transformed into an almost transcendent creature as he bows, so lost in his playing that all else fades away, including the stiff arrogance and self-consciousness that he typically surrounds himself with.

Their impromptu concert is interrupted too soon by the ring of Sherlock’s phone. He growls in annoyance but puts down the violin to answer it.

“Yes, what is it?” he snaps. Long pause. The tone of his voice changes, goes quiet and cold. “I understand. He _what_? Thank you for telling me. Yes, I will. No, I can handle it. I said I can handle it! Fine, tomorrow. Piss off.”

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock, so recently flushed with his exertions on the violin, has lost all colour and appears upset. “Everything…all right?” he asks carefully.

Sherlock shakes himself. “Yes, of course. That was just Mycroft, being annoying. I’m to go see him tomorrow. Prat.” He forces his face into a wry smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “He sends his love.”

“He always does,” John sighs. “Why is he always so –”

“Why is Mycroft ever anything?” Sherlock interrupts crossly. “Useless question. Bed for me, I think. Goodnight, John.”

“What? It’s only 8:30!” John exclaims, but Sherlock has retreated to his room and shut the door firmly.

John can tell something was wrong, of course, and that feeling is borne out with Sherlock’s cagey and increasingly erratic behaviour over the next few days. He refuses to admit anything is out of the ordinary, but he is out of sorts despite plenty of reasonably enticing work and public adoration, disappearing for hours at a time, snapping at John for nothing but then refusing to rise to blatant attempts on John’s part to bait him.

It’s so infuriating that John is tempted to go to Mycroft, but he suspects something is going on there that he shouldn’t interfere with. The only one who has a more complicated relationship with Sherlock than John is Mycroft, and John freely admits he doesn’t understand it. He decides the best thing to do is to just let whatever it is run its course, and hope Sherlock will talk to him at some point if it is serious.

This continues for about a week, John trying to remain patient and unconcerned in the face of Sherlock’s nervous energy, and mainly succeeding, at least outwardly. One night, as he is just getting ready for bed, there is a knock at his door. This is unusual. Sherlock rarely ventures into the room when John is there – when he is not there Sherlock habitually goes through his things, a fact that John has exploited for his own amusement by occasionally hiding ridiculous or appalling artefacts amongst his possessions for Sherlock to find – and when he does, he typically bursts in without warning on a tear about something. Polite knocking is worrying.

“All right, come in,” John calls, sitting on the bed to remove his shoes.

Sherlock enters, walks straight over to John with no hesitation, leans down and kisses him, almost harshly, without preamble. John doesn’t respond, partially out of shock and partially because there is no chance to do so. Sherlock is so firmly in charge, so aggressive that there is no room for anything but submission or forceful rejection on John’s part.

“Sherlock, what the –” he begins as soon as they break apart, but before he can finish the sentence Sherlock is on him again, kissing him with brutal strength, hands on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed, trying to force his tongue between John’s lips and climb on top of him at the same time.

Heart pounding, John finally manages to gather the presence of mind to resist, using all his strength to shove Sherlock off of him and hold him at arms length. “Sherlock, just stop for a second!” he exclaims. His friend is like a wild thing, all need and desire and instinct, no thought. At first he assumes Sherlock is high again, but he can quickly see that he isn’t, nor is he drunk. “You can’t just attack me like this. What’s going on?”

With difficulty Sherlock controls himself. “I want you, John. Right now.” He leans towards John again, but John fends him off.

“Hold on. I need a minute.” John takes a few measured breaths. He had put away all thoughts of anything like this weeks ago. He thought the moment where it might have been something beyond companionship had passed for good, and he had buried any other feelings he might have as deeply as he possibly could. Sherlock had been very clear about what he wanted – or didn’t want – and John had accepted it, happily even, relieved at not having to navigate the thorny topic of his own sexuality, even if part of him did yearn for more.

“What happened, Sherlock? I thought you said you couldn’t… you didn’t want to… that things never worked for you… What changed? Why now?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, I need to know, I can’t just…Well, I need to know.” John tells him firmly, even as he becomes very aware of Sherlock’s clean-but-musky scent in his nostrils and the lingering taste of breath mint and tobacco in his mouth.

Sherlock shakes his head, impatiently, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He speaks in a clipped, urgent voice, wanting John to understand but annoyed by having to explain. “I don’t know. I can’t want it, I shouldn’t want it, it’s wrong, it’s a distraction, it’s against everything I’ve taught myself to be, but I do. And I’m tired, John. Tired of fighting it, tired of pretending I don’t have to fight it. It’s…it’s too much. And I don’t want to die without knowing what it’s like, what you feel like, what you taste like… I can’t do it any longer.”

Sherlock looks at John with wide, desperate eyes, pleading wordlessly. John can see Sherlock needs this, he doesn’t know why, but he needs it badly. And John can feel his own desire, so long controlled and managed carefully, screaming to be set loose, even as other parts of his brain recoil from the idea. He closes his eyes and makes a decision.

“I’m yours, Sherlock,” he says quietly, but with determination. “I’m yours and I always have been.” 


	6. Chapter 6

John barely has a chance to brace himself before the whirlwind that is Sherlock sweeps him up, filling his senses, knocking him on to his back and tearing at his cardigan. Sherlock kisses John hungrily, possessively, holding him down with his body as if John might try and escape. John finds himself responding more than he ever thought possible, aroused by the strength of Sherlock’s raw need for him. He returns Sherlock’s kisses with equal pressure, rising to meet his mouth, running his tongue along lips and teeth, trying to climb inside of him.

Sherlock is fierce and determined, pinning John down as he starts to undress him. John can barely breathe, barely think, barely do anything but bury his hands in Sherlock’s tangle of dark curls and hold on as Sherlock ravishes him, claims him as his own. He understands that tonight it is not about him, not really. It is about Sherlock. John has never been the submissive type, but tonight he will let Sherlock take what he needs, he will be whatever Sherlock wants, give himself unreservedly in whatever manner his friend requires. It’s the only thing he can do for him.  

John closes his eyes, luxuriating in the spare, slender body pressed against his, Sherlock’s hips grinding into him as he devours John neck, sometimes kissing gently, sometimes biting hard enough to leave a mark, but the whole time never ceasing his quest to dominate him completely. Sherlock unbuttons John’s shirt skilfully with one hand, shifting to straddle him as he grips John’s shoulder firmly with the other, holding him in place.

John writhes beneath Sherlock, hard and throbbing already, driven wild by the sensation of Sherlock’s erection rubbing against his own. He fumblingly manages to undo Sherlock’s shirt and reaches for him, trying to pull him closer, but Sherlock grabs his wrists with both hands and pins them to the bed, pressing his bare chest against John’s, growling in his ear, “ _Mine._ ”

“Yours,” John agrees, craning his neck to bite Sherlock’s shoulder and wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s, pulling their hips more tightly together. He arches his back, thrusting up against Sherlock, gasping in pleasure at the friction. “Only yours.”

Sherlock can’t contain a moan of his own and begins to work his way methodically down John’s chest, still holding his arms, sucking on the hollow of his collarbone, biting at John’s nipples hard enough to make him cry out, and slowly, maddeningly making his way lower until he is tearing at John’s belt with his teeth, growling with frustration at the impediment.

John uses this momentary distraction to free his wrists, tearing Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders and running  his hands over the ivory skin of Sherlock’s back, feeling his shoulder blades, every vertebra under his fingers. Sherlock busies himself undoing John’s fly while John plunges his hands into Sherlock’s trousers, fondling the prominent hipbones, feeling Sherlock’s hardness so close to him but not yet daring to touch it.

Sherlock strips John of trousers and pants efficiently, leaving him naked and quivering beneath the detective’s unflinching gaze. Pulsing with the need for relief, John reaches down to touch himself, but Sherlock bats his hand away with a hiss. “No. Stay!” he commands, bending down to take John in his mouth.

John nearly comes as soon as he feels Sherlock’s lips around him, but manages to hold on, making himself breathe and wrapping one hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck while the other grips the duvet for purchase. He bucks his hips into Sherlock, who holds them tightly to bed with both hands as he slides his lips to the base of John’s shaft and sucks with purpose, taking nearly all of John into his mouth and skilfully running his tongue up and down John’s length.

John throws his head back and swears under his breath, completely undone, feeling like Sherlock is taking him apart piece by piece. He surrenders to it, gasping Sherlock’s name as he feels the climax swelling, insistent this time, refusing to be denied. John tightens his hold on Sherlock’s neck. “I…can’t…” he manages, but Sherlock only redoubles his efforts, licking John’s head vigorously until he can take it no more. He comes in Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock surrounding him, swallowing him down, lapping him up.

As soon as the waves of pleasure dim enough for John to see straight, he grabs for Sherlock, pulling him over him, kissing Sherlock deeply and tasting his own lingering flavour in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock allows him to remove the rest of his clothes, to wrap his hand around Sherlock, gloriously hard and smooth and already beginning to be slick. He permits John to stroke him while kissing his throat, devouring every bit of it he can reach. Sherlock lifts his head, exposing more of his tender skin, eyes closed, body purring under John’s touch.

Too soon, Sherlock breaks away from John, leaving him craving more. “Turn over,” he orders, sharp desire glinting in his grey eyes. John understands what he wants and obeys with only the smallest of hesitations, laying spread-eagle on his stomach, waiting. He has never felt so exposed, so completely vulnerable before, and trembles a little though he is not afraid.

He hears Sherlock, without having to ask where, reach into his bedside table. Sherlock runs his hands lightly over John’s shoulders, his back, his waist, his hips, tracing the curves of his body with long, nimble fingers, almost prayerfully. He starts kissing at the nape of John’s neck and works his way down his back, following the line of John's spine to where it meets the top of his buttocks. John feels himself being spread apart and forces himself not to tense as Sherlock slips a finger inside of him, gripping John’s shoulder with his other hand, keeping him still.

John gasps at the new sensation, sharp and sweet and intensely pleasurable as he feels Sherlock slowly working his way inside him, carefully but relentlessly. He is completely in Sherlock’s power and can do, wants to do, nothing but submit to it as one finger becomes two, then three, turning him inside out.

Sherlock plays him like the violin, eliciting feelings and sounds from him he didn’t think possible, brushing fingers expertly against his prostate until John sees stars behinds his eyes and his nerves hum like strings, an unfamiliar but beautiful symphony. John’s body sings a harmony to Sherlock’s melody, completely out of John’s control, completely given over.

Sherlock leans over him and John feels hot breath against his ear as Sherlock whispers hoarsely, “Do you want me, John?”

“Oh, God, yes,” John moans.

“Say it.”

“I want you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock makes a pleased, almost animalistic sound, a low rumble, and John can feel him hard against the back of his thighs. Sherlock steadies himself, then guides himself into John, a little too fast at first and John can’t stop a whimper from the sudden pain, but it soon dissipates and he pushes himself back against Sherlock, wanting to feel more of him.

When Sherlock is buried in him as deeply as he can go, he lays flat against John, covering John’s body with his own, chest to back, hands to hands, legs to legs, and lips in John’s hair. He is still, draped over John, as if he is trying to melt inside of him, as if they could fuse into one person. Every possible centimetre of bare skin is pressed against each other.

John stays quiet beneath him, even the slight movement from Sherlock’s breathing sending shivers of pleasure through him. The heat from Sherlock’s body radiates into him, filling him up, suffusing him with joy. He has never felt anything so intimate in his life, as though they are a single creature, and he thinks he could stay like this forever.

Sherlock murmurs something into the back of his head, so softly John is not even sure he has heard him. “ _Don’t ever give up on me, John.”_

John closes his eyes, trying to hold on to this moment. Soon, though, Sherlock raises himself up, holding John’s shoulders, and slowly begins to thrust into him, sliding part way out and then back in as deeply as possible, rhythmically, first measured and almost lazily, then building the tempo, riding John faster and harder, slamming into him with a force that takes John’s breath away, brushing his g-spot just enough to drive all conscious thought out of John’s head.

Sherlock grips John’s shoulders more tightly, fingernails digging into skin hard enough to draw blood, and John can tell that Sherlock is close. He feels the pressure building within himself as well, as he is pounded into the mattress, broken down and rebuilt by Sherlock’s powerful, insistent use of him. He is breathing heavily now, greedily pressing himself back against Sherlock as he feels his friend begin to shudder, wanting to experience every second as deeply as possible.

John feels the molten warmth spilling out deep inside of him as Sherlock finally lets go with a long, stuttering gasp. It drives John to orgasm, and the twin sensations of his own release and Sherlock emptying himself into John so completely surpass comprehension. Every fibre of John’s body is alive with pleasure, with wonder that he is capable of containing such complete and total perfection within himself.

Sherlock is utterly, completely still for a long a moment, as they both struggle to come back to themselves, then slides out of John with a soft gasp and kneels behind him. As soon as John manages to regain control of his senses, he realises something is not quite right. He quickly rolls over and sits up.

Sherlock is still kneeling on the bed, looking like he has just awoken from a trance, like a fever has broken and he has only now realised where he is, what he has been doing. He is panting from their exertion and has an expression of shock on his face and, John realises, disgust. But he is not looking at John, he is looking down at himself, as if he cannot comprehend what has just happened, how he got here.

“Sherlock?” John asks, gently.

Sherlock looks at him, at last, and the empty, appalled tone is heartwrenching. “John, I don’t know what came over me… I didn’t mean for it to go this far…I shouldn’t have… I should have controlled myself…I’ll go. I should go…”

John resists the instinct to be hurt by his words and instead reaches out and puts his hands on Sherlock’s waist, stopping him from leaving. He mirrors Sherlock’s position, kneeling before him and resting his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“No, no, no,” he whispers. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s good. It’s very good.”

Sherlock starts to shake his head in protest, but John begins kissing his face, his neck, his lips, firmly, brooking no argument.

“It’s good,” he repeats, almost savagely. “I wanted it. You wanted it. It’s not wrong. It’s good.”

Sherlock swallows, his breathing steadying, and manages a small nod.

“Don’t go,” John tells him, drawing him closer. “Here, just lie down with me. Please.”

Sherlock allows John to pull him down to the bed, to wrap his arms about him and curl himself around the taller man, trying to soothe him with his body. John pulls the duvet over both of them and Sherlock begins to relax, ever so slightly, in his embrace. John murmurs soft, reassuring words in Sherlock’s ear, pressing tightly against his friend, hoping it will be enough. “It’s good. You did good.”

Eventually John falls silent and just holds him, trying to shelter him from his own thoughts as well as he knows how. They are quiet for a long time, not sleeping, not speaking, just being, together but somehow separate.

At last John asks, “Will you talk to me?”

Sherlock stiffens briefly, but nods. “I…I’ll try.”

“When you said you decided a long time ago not to… why did you choose that?”

Sherlock lets out a long breath. “I’ve been different since I was a child, in many, many ways. As you can imagine. But as I got older I realised one of the ways that I was different was…this. It didn’t seem to matter, really, it wasn’t like I interacted much with the other boys at school anyway, and I was already interested in deduction and science and that took up most of my energy. But my family was…fairly traditionally minded, and it wouldn’t have gone well if I displayed such an interest openly, although I’m pretty sure my proclivities had been well-guessed by at least my mother and brother.”

“So you hid it?”

“I prefer to think of it as directing my thoughts elsewhere. It wasn’t like I had much of a chance to do anything about it had I wanted to. And as I said, I had plenty of other interests that seemed more important than all the mooning about and pawing at each other my peers were doing. There was one time, as a teenager, I wanted briefly to… but it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” John tells him quietly. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened, truly. It was just a thought, a moment. My parents hosted a coming-out ball for my cousin and some other girls from her set and I was conscripted to be an escort and dance with the…young ladies.”

John laughs in spite of himself. “I bet you loved that.”

“It was…not pleasant, but not the sort of the thing I learned how to get out of until after I left for uni. Mummy could be very persuasive. In any case, there were a lot of young people from other schools there and there was a boy I’d never seen before. I looked at him and he looked at me and I could see it, we were the same. I’d never experienced that before, and I was angry at my parents for making me attend, so I decided I would ask him to dance in front of everyone. I could see he’d say yes, he was very confident.”

“How did that go?”

“It went precisely as I expected. We made it half way to the dance floor before my father hauled me off by my collar and threatened to whip me if I tried anything like that again. The other boy played it off as a joke to his dad. Mummy had a long, concerned talk with me about appropriate social behaviour and how certain feelings weren’t meant to be acted on, and never made me go to a ball again. Two weeks later was the Carl Powers murder and even though I wasn’t able to solve it, the case was just so much more… _stimulating_ … than anything else I’d ever done, ever even thought of. I decided it was better to pursue forensics and detection than romantic entanglements.”

“So, asking me to dance at Mycroft’s party…”

“It was childish of me, I admit, but suddenly I very much wanted to go on that dance floor, in front of everyone, and dance with someone I…chose… and not have anyone be able to say anything about it.”

“Mycroft seems supportive,” John points out.

“Mycroft feels guilty that he didn’t stand up to our parents for me. He thinks if he had, I wouldn’t be like this. He spent ten years throwing pretty boys of every shape, size, and nationality in my path, hoping one would stick. He was over the moon when you moved in. Absolved.”

“Did you ever see that boy again? From the party?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I never knew his name, though I’m sure I could have found out. I think he was from Wales. But don’t weigh that incident too heavily. I’m certain I would have come to the same conclusion if it had never happened. I did have a few intimacies at uni, some as an experiment and some out of a youthful failure to rein in my impulses. They all resulted in distraction or distress for both parties. It didn’t seem to be worth it, and I learned to control my urges for the most part. It was better. I could focus on my work. Nobody expected things from me I couldn’t give them.”

John finds this very sad, but only says, “Thank you for...telling me all this.”

Sherlock nods curtly, as if the effort has exhausted his ability to speak for awhile. Both fall silent. John closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock breathing against him.

After another long stretch Sherlock says, “I was weak. And I am…ashamed of my weakness. But I don’t regret it. I… I don’t want you to think that I do. There’s no one else that I…no one I’ve ever been able to trust enough. No one I wanted enough to give in for.”

John smiles to himself and plants a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t expect anything, you know. Whatever you want, whatever you need… I’ll understand.”

Sherlock makes a contemplative noise. “Perhaps my work and…other things…aren’t completely incompatible. At least in certain cases.”

“Is that your way of saying you’d like to stay here tonight?” John asks, a bit mischievously, trying to lighten the mood.

“Only if we can do that again,” Sherlock answers. “I think I’d like to do that again. I think it was…good.”

John laughs and, in answer, rolls Sherlock over to face him and wraps his arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. “Yes. Very, very good.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next day, Jim Moriarty, absent from all news and rumour for several months, breaks into the Tower of London and scrawls “Get Sherlock” on the case containing the crown jewels before allowing himself to be captured.

“You knew this was going to happen,” John says, when they get home. “You knew he was coming back.”

“Why on earth would you say something like that?” Sherlock answers, too casually.

“Because I’m not stupid. Just like I’m not stupid enough to take that for a denial. That phone call from your brother…all your skulking about. This is what it’s all been about, hasn’t it. Moriarty.”

Sherlock sighs. “I didn’t know this, precisely, was going to happen. But yes, if you must know, I had a pretty fair idea that Moriarty was going to make a move, that it was going to be soon, and that it was going to be designed to get my attention.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me? After what happened last time –”

“What happened last time is exactly why I didn’t tell you. You’re better off out of it.”

“Right. That’s how it works. You keep things from me, so I’m out of it. That’s gone so well in the past,” John snaps. “I’m never really out of it Sherlock. Especially not now.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, sits down and opens his computer, typing furiously and ignoring John.  

“Last night…” John says, slowly. “This is why last night, all of a sudden... You knew he was coming back and you wanted… you said you didn’t want to die without knowing what it was like.”

Sherlock snaps to the laptop shut and jumps to his feet. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

John shakes his head. “Do you think you’re going to die? Is that what this is is? Do you think he’s going to kill you?

“Everybody dies,” Sherlock says coldly. “You of all people should know that.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” John approaches Sherlock, carefully, unsure of what their boundaries are now.

Sherlock looks trapped and annoyed, but doesn’t move away. He fidgets, and looks John directly in the eye. “I can’t tell you that Moriarty isn’t capable of instilling in me a sense of my own mortality, vulnerability even, that I am not accustomed to. And perhaps that has…coloured…my actions of late. But I don’t plan on dying any time in the immediate future. I have no doubt he will try to kill me, but I have no intention of allowing him to succeed. In fact, I much prefer it to be the other way round.”

John relaxes. “All right. Perhaps I am a bit too jumpy about the whole thing. At least he’s in custody now.”

“Yes,” agrees Sherlock, as if he does not, in fact, find that reassuring at all.

The trial is arranged with startling speed, even given the high profile nature of the case and the magnitude of the evidence against Moriarty. It is only a few weeks before Sherlock is on his way to court to testify, only a couple more days before Moriarty is free again.

“He came to see me today,” Sherlock tells John later that night.

“What? Are you serious?! He was here in our flat and you didn’t—”

“He’s a free man now, he can do what he likes.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“He wanted to gloat, that’s all.”

“Really, all?” John is sceptical. “So, that’s it then. He gets himself arrested, he gets himself acquitted, he joins you for tea, the end?”

“Looks like.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No.”

“Sherlock,” John puts a hand uncertainly on his friend’s shoulder. “There’s something you aren’t telling me. Something’s going to happen, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But I suspect not for some time, and there’s no way of predicting his next move until he makes it. Best not to think of it.”

“I’m sure you’ll put out of your head entirely,” John mutters, and goes upstairs to his room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He is not surprised to hear the light, catlike footstep on the stair an hour later.

Since that first time, John has let Sherlock come to him. Not every night, but more nights than not he ends up in John’s bed, taking pleasure, taking comfort as he can. John isn’t sure if Sherlock has actually abandoned his internal struggle against the desires of the flesh or if he’s just losing it regularly. John is afraid to push him, sensing the conflict still in him on some level, afraid that if he attempts to initiate when Sherlock is not in the right mental place for it he will spook him, drive him off.

Gradually, Sherlock does seem to become more comfortable with what they are doing, what they are. He is less vicious, less controlling, more able to let John be an equal partner in their lovemaking, to even take charge, dominate him occasionally. He feels safe with John, grateful that John never pressures him, never seems to judge, never demands what he cannot give. John accepts everything Sherlock throws at him, in bed and out of it.

Sherlock no longer feels the rising panic and guilt when they are finished, screaming at him that it will go wrong soon, that he has betrayed his principles. He is able to relax, to enjoy the afterglow and bask in John’s arms, to be a little vulnerable, to speak, in rare moments, in a way he has never spoken to anyone before. And his work certainly doesn’t seem to suffer for it.

Outside of the bedroom things continue much as normal between them, which John finds both surreal and completely understandable. He hadn’t truly realised until they started sleeping together how much the rest of their lives already resembled that of two people in a relationship. Neither man is naturally effusive, and John knows Sherlock is unlikely to be willing to talk about such things outside of the immediate moment of intimacy. John doesn’t particularly feel the need to either.

Sometimes John is unable to stop himself from a small expression of affection in their day to day lives, but he chooses his moments carefully, when Sherlock is not working or already agitated – grabbing him for a kiss before he goes out, stroking his thigh or the back of his neck when they are watching telly. At first Sherlock seems puzzled by this, but ultimately he accepts these gestures, even seems to appreciate them as long as they are discreet and not too frequent. Once or twice it has even landed them back upstairs in John’s bed, but only when Sherlock is very bored. He prefers the late nights.

They go on this way for two months after the trial. John is happy and content. He almost forgets about Moriarty, convincing himself that the criminal has lost interest or at least is a long way off. His relationship with Sherlock may not be what anyone would consider normal, but he wants no more. Sherlock doesn’t work emotionally the way most people do, and the feelings he does have he doesn’t express well or at all. But John doesn’t need him to.

And they are so very good together, in work, in life, in bed. They complement each other absolutely. They always have done, but somehow now that they have moved beyond platonic friendship, John feels that their dynamic has strengthened far past what was before, what he’s had with anyone else, with girlfriends, with family, with his platoon mates.

Sexually, John is constantly amazed at the perfection the two of them together unfailing produces, whether they are roughly ravaging each other, fighting for control, leaving bruises and bite marks, or sweetly, tenderly giving themselves to one another in a sleepy moment after a hard case. There are many tunes but they always seem to be in absolute harmony. John had never thought he’d want to be with a man at all, and certainly not that he could be so fully satisfied by one that all thought of anything else leave his head permanently. Sherlock is all he wants, and, he realises, all he’s ever wanted.

One night, Sherlock enters John’s room, late as usual but with uncommon hesitation. John is already in bed, reading and wearing only pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock is in his favourite dressing gown. He approaches the bed almost solemnly, and John puts down his book as Sherlock wordlessly climbs on top of him, straddling his lap, and kisses him deeply, gentle but determined, hands cupping John’s face. It is passionate and sensuous, but there is something sad about his manner.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” John asks when they break apart, running his hand through Sherlock’s black curls.

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into John’s hand, tangling his own fingers in John’s chest hair. Then he seems to shake himself and withdraws, swinging his legs so he is sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I can’t do this any more,” he says, his voice quavering a bit.

John puts a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. “What are you talking about?”

“This. With you. I can’t do it.” His tone is firmer now, and icy.

“Sherlock, why are you saying this?” John can’t hide the hurt in his voice, but tries to keep it steady. “What happened?”

Sherlock jumps up from the bed, shrugging off John’s touch. “Nothing happened. It’s just too much of a distraction. I knew it would be. I should have stopped it a long time ago, should have never started it, but I was weak. How am I supposed to focus on my work when I’m constantly thinking about…this? It can’t go on. It was a mistake.”

He makes for the door but John is quicker, springing out of bed and blocking his path. “So that’s it, then? A twelve-week mistake is all this has been? You’re not getting out of this that easy.”

Sherlock’s lips are pressed tight together, his eyes unreadable. “You told me that you would do whatever I wanted, whatever I needed. You promised me. Well, what I need is for this to stop and for you, for both of us to forget it ever happened. Will you do that for me?”

John looks away and tries to get his emotions in check, a swirling storm of hurt, anger, confusion, and sadness. “I’m not convinced that this is either what you need or what you want.”

“Well, I’m the only one who can know that,” Sherlock says, his voice low and hoarse now, as if he can barely summon the effort to speak. “So you will just have to believe me. It’s over. Forget it.”

John swallows hard. “Fine. I clearly can’t change your mind. But I won’t forget it. I don’t want to. It’s been some of the best…” his voice breaks a little. He clears his throat. “The best moments of my life have been with you, right here, over the past three months. I’m not giving those memories up, even if I have to give you up.”

“It won’t change anything.”

“That’s not the point.”

Sherlock cocks his head, as if he can’t quite grasp what John is saying, and in that moment, John hates him, just a little. “Will you move out, then?”

John is taken aback. “What?”

“Well, in common parlance we seem to have just broken up, so I assumed…”

“Do you want me to move out?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock seems surprised he would ask.

“I said I wouldn’t leave you. So, I’m not going to, not unless you ask me to and maybe not even then.” His voice is quiet, determined, and pained. “I told you. I’ll be here no matter what. I’ll understand… I’ll…try…to understand.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and sets his jaw firmly. “Thank you, John,” he murmurs. He heads again for the door and John lets him pass, the will drained out him. Sherlock is moving slowly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s just done, but he doesn’t look back.

Suddenly, John remembers their first time together, the words Sherlock had said to him in barely a whisper, in the most honest, quiet, intense moment they had shared. _Don’t ever give up on me._ Had Sherlock been trying to warn John against himself, knowing he would do this eventually? Or had he just been afraid at how much he was giving away. John’s mind spins desperately.

Just as Sherlock reaches the top of the stairs, John calls out, “You got a call from Mycroft today.”

Sherlock freezes in place, is silent for a long moment, then says, “What of it?”

“You tried to hide it from me. You didn’t want me to know. Something is about to happen, isn’t it? Something really bad, something with Moriarty. That’s why you’re doing this. Because of him, because of last time when he—” John breaks off, unable to say it, to bring back to life that horrible night at the pool where they nearly lost each other.

Sherlock turns, slowly, but doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to do this. It’s not going change anything he’s going to do, you have to know that,” John pleads. He reaches for Sherlock, and Sherlock allows John to take his hand, to pull him back into his room, to sit next to him on the edge of the bed, temporarily wavering in his resolve.

At last Sherlock says quietly, “I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I know it is going to be clever and dangerous and meant to destroy me completely. And possibly you as well. I can’t fight him, can’t counter him if I’m distracted by this, by you, by what…what we are. When I first knew he was going to return, I thought it was going to be over quickly, I wanted to be with you just once before, in case I didn’t…. But he’s been playing the long game and I never intended things with you to continue the way they have, never thought it would be…what it is. He’s already used you against me once, he won’t hesitate to do it again. I can’t be blinded by lust or fear or…any other feeling… or I will lose. Do you understand that? It’s too dangerous for both of us. I need to be focused completely on him, on whatever game he decides to play with me. If am anything else… he will win and I will be gone.”

John takes a deep breath. “I understand. I do. I’m not sure it works that you can just turn your feelings off when you stop sleeping with someone though,” he points out.

“Perhaps not. But I can’t afford the risk, anything that dulls my senses, that makes me weak or unfocused. It could mean the end of me. It would be better, safer for us both, if you went entirely, ended our friendship, moved out, distanced yourself from me completely. But I’m…too selfish to ask you do that.”

It hurts, to be considered a liability, a distraction. But at the same time John is touched, realising that Sherlock is admitting just how important John is to him.

“Okay,” John says. “But… when this is over, when you have won –  and you _will_ win – and Moriarty is dead or behind bars, then there will be nothing left to worry about. No reason we can’t…”

“John, I don’t think—”

“No.” John is firm. “I understand why you have to focus now. I can accept it. But in the long run I think you need this and I think you want this, and if I’m wrong then look in my eyes and tell me, tell me you never want to be with me again and I will shut up and never say another word about it. I will be your friend and I will work your cases and I will bail you out of jail, but I will never try to kiss you or seduce you or convince you that we should be more than that. But only if you tell me that you really, truly, don’t want this ever again.”

Sherlock locks his grey eyes on John’s dark blue ones, unblinking. He opens his mouth and for one terrible moment John thinks he’s actually going to say it. But instead he closes his mouth and leans his forehead against John’s, defeated. John lets out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. He puts his hands to Sherlock’s face.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay. You’ll get him and everything will be fine. We won’t let him take this away from us. Not for good.”

Sherlock composes himself, gets up, and leaves without another word, touching John softly on the shoulder as he goes, all he is able to give at the moment. John has never wanted to run after him and wrap him up in his arms so badly. He physically aches for him, to take him to bed, to comfort him. But it wouldn’t work. Sherlock needs it to be like this, for now. And John has absolute faith that Sherlock will prevail, believes with all his heart that Moriarty will be defeated and that Sherlock will come back to him, fully. They need each other too much to stay away.


	8. Chapter 8

A week passes. A week in which John tries to adjust to an empty bed, a flatmate who no longer quite belongs to him, and a mountain of things that cannot be said. It seems easy for Sherlock, so effortless, for him to step back out of their romantic relationship, to turn back the clock and return to simple partnership and companionship. John knows it probably isn’t really effortless for Sherlock, but it feels that way and it hurts.

John tries his hardest to behave normally as well, to keep the resentment he can’t quite help feeling out of his tone and attitude, to be the same old friend, flatmate, partner he was before. But at night, alone in his room, without the hope of hearing that soft step on the stair, it is harder. He tells himself it is just temporary, that this state of affairs won’t endure forever, but as the days stretch on with no change, he is not sure he believes it.

Whenever he closes his eyes, the memories come back to him, painful now but also wonderful. He doesn’t want to forget. The feeling of the warm, smooth, alabaster skin on his. Sandpaper stubble on his neck and chest. Soft lips on his back, his shoulders, his most intimate of places. His hands on the slender waist, bodies pressed together, arms around each other. Tongues and fingers and cocks trembling inside each other, making them one. The scenes play in his head like a movie, over and over, and he doesn’t know if he wants them to stop.

Then John comes home from a meeting with Mycroft to an envelope of breadcrumbs and news the Ambassador’s children have been kidnapped, and it all goes bad so quickly that he cannot quite comprehend it. They both know, instantly, that this is Moriarty’s doing, but neither will say it. John hopes, prays, he is wrong, that it is just a normal case,  that they will find the children and all will be well.

Two days. It takes just two days for Moriarty to destroy everything Sherlock has built, everything they have together, and John can do nothing to stop it. All his loyalty, all his defence of Sherlock, his willingness to turn fugitive and go on the run from the law with him, none of it amounts to anything. It plays right into Moriarty’s hands.

Two days and John is standing in front of St. Bart’s, listening to Sherlock lie to him, not understanding why and pleading for him not to jump.

“It’s just a trick, just a magic trick,” the beloved voice tells him, and he doesn’t believe it for a second. Even when he says, “Goodbye, John,” and plunges over the edge, John doesn’t believe it, not his words, not his actions. It can’t be possible that this is happening. Not even when he hears the sickening sound of Sherlock hitting the pavement.

He runs to Sherlock, thinking if he can get there fast enough it won’t be true. A bicyclist comes out of nowhere, knocking him down with enough force to slam his head on the pavement and make him lose consciousness, just for a second. It doesn’t matter. He scrambles to his feet, stumbling almost blindly through the crowd that has inexplicably materialised around Sherlock and pushes through. “Let me through. He’s my friend,” he cries, as if the assertion could bring him back.

His head pounds as he reaches for the limp wrist and finds nothing there, no pulse, no life. He allows himself to be pried off Sherlock. Even then he thinks maybe it isn’t true, even though he knows the feeling of that hand, that wrist, better than his own, has checked Sherlock's pulse there scores of times. But they turn him over, revealing the battered face, streaked with blood, grey eyes sightless and open. It is the eyes that convince John it is really over. He knows those eyes, has seen every possible mood shining in them, has seen them sharp and cold and angry and filled with desire and joyful, but he has never seen them empty, never seen them still.

They take him away, some kind strangers holding John back, keeping him from throwing himself upon Sherlock’s body and laying with him in the street until he dies as well. John is left standing alone in the rain, with a puddle of blood next to him. There is so much blood. It’s all that’s left of his friend, slowly being washed away into the storm drain.

He understands then, rain beating down on him, crimson and pink swirling around his feet, that Sherlock knew how it would end all along. Or at least guessed. That’s why he had ended things when he did, thinking it would be easier this way, for John, for him. Typical Sherlock thinking. But it wasn’t easier, at least not for John. There had been no proper goodbye, at least not till the very end, and even that had been wrong and full of lies. There was no acknowledgement of the situation, no last night together. Just the false hope that it would be over soon and that they would be together again. But it had never been going to end any other way than this.

John knows this wasn’t a suicide. He doesn’t know what has transpired on the roof, and won’t until weeks later, but he knows that the man he has shared a life, a flat, a bed with wasn’t a fraud and would never do this to himself, would never do this to John. He knows exactly who to blame.

He goes through the motions of the statement and the funeral mechanically, until he finds himself standing alone in front of the stark headstone, begging Sherlock not to be dead, as if he can hear him, as if he can make it be true. Even after he leaves, goes to his new rooms, unable to bear the thought of returning alone to Baker Street, he continues to plead inside his head. “Please don’t be dead. For me. Please.” It’s like an unceasing prayer, keeping him from breaking down completely, keeping irrational, ridiculous hope alive.

It does little for the pain, but nothing can. Some time in the past 18 month he has forgotten how to be alone, and it is too quiet, too dark, too still without another human being, without someone to leave appalling messes in the kitchen, body parts in the fridge, mock crime scenes in the sitting room. But he cannot abide the company of anyone else, so he endures, still trying to hold on to the idea that it might all be a dream, or a trick, that Sherlock might still be alive, somehow. He wishes Moriarty were still alive so he would have someone to hunt, to kill, to take revenge on.

About three weeks after Sherlock’s death, John is out walking. He is not going anywhere in particular, he just can’t bear the emptiness of the flat any more, being alone with his own feelings, his memories, without purpose. He is lost in his own thoughts when a black town car pulls up beside him and stops. A large man gets out and opens the door for him.

“No,” John says. “I won’t see him.”

He keeps walking and the car pulls ahead of him, stops, and repeats the performance.

“I said no. Mycroft can deal with his guilt on his own. I don’t want to see him, I don’t want talk to him, I don’t want his help or his money or his empathy. Mycroft Holmes can go fuck himself.”

The woman occasionally known as Anthea sticks her head out the window. “Dr. Watson, we are not going to see Mycroft, I assure you. But you very much want to get in this car.”

John is tempted  to walk away, but something in her tone makes him surrender and get in. She is, as usual, working away furiously on her phone, taking no notice of him.

“Where are we going, if not to Mycroft. This is his car, isn’t it?”

“Mm. Don’t know.”

“Then how do you know I want to go there?”

“Oh, you definitely do.”

He gets nothing else out of her and they ride in silence for nearly an hour, seeming to take a ridiculously circuitous route to wherever they are going. The car pulls to a stop in the middle of a large industrial complex, now mostly abandoned and in disrepair. John has no idea what part of London he is in.

“Well?” Anthea says shortly. “Getting out?”

“What, here?”

“Yes. Bye.”

John gets out and is barely surprised when the car drives away and leaves him. It’s raining again, it’s been raining all summer. “Great. Now what?” he mutters to himself. Suddenly his mobile vibrates and he looks down. There is a text from a blocked number.

_Prat. Walk straight ahead and enter the third building on your right._

There is no signature, and no way to send a return text, but for some reason John’s heart flutters in his chest. Cautiously, he does as he is instructed. The building seems to be an empty warehouse, with great chains hanging from the ceiling, possibly used for construction equipment. The few, high windows are filthy and it is cloudy out, so only a tiny amount of light manages to filter onto the floor. The room is huge, and John can just make out a figure standing in shadow all the way at the other end of it.

Even before John can see it properly, he knows, he _knows_ that shape, even hundreds of metres away, even in darkness, even though it is impossible. He freezes, feeling his knees go weak, afraid to go any closer, afraid it might vanish or he might find his mind is playing tricks on him. “Sherlock,” he breathes.

The figure steps into an anaemic patch of light and there is no doubt left in his mind. John forces himself not to run, walking as quickly and determinedly across the distance between them as he can manage, trying to keep tears out of his eyes. He stops a few feet in front of his friend, looking him up and down desperately. He is whole, unharmed, unchanged, right down to the coat and the scarf and the way his curls fall across his forehead.

“Sherlock…” he says again slowly. “It’s really you. Isn’t it? I’m not… I’m not hallucinating this…”

In answer Sherlock puts his arms around John’s waist and draws John to him. John buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, holding on to him for dear life, hands digging into the fabric of his coat. John can smell his familiar scent, feel his warmth as Sherlock put his lips to John temple, nuzzling John’s hair and closing his eyes. John cannot totally stop the tears, but they come silently and are lost in Sherlock’s lapels.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock whispers. It is the first time he's ever said that word to John. 

Neither knows how long they stay like that, but it is several minutes before either can move or speak. At last John lifts his head, still not letting go of Sherlock. “How? Why?”

Sherlock explains as briefly and simply as he can, about Moriarty, the contract on John and the others, the plan he hatched with Molly and Mycroft to escape, why it was vital John know nothing of it.

John knows he should be angry that Sherlock kept all this from him, that he put him through so much pain. He is angry, really, but his anger is so tiny compared to the joy and relief of having his friend back that it seems utterly insignificant. He takes in the explanation wordlessly, just happy to listen to the smooth, sonorous voice again. When Sherlock is done he asks, “So… is it safe now?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. The contract is still active, Moriarty is dead so he can never recall it. They are not watching as closely as they were, but…it isn’t safe.”

John gives him a quizzical look.

“I had…intended not to come back until I had dismantled Moriarty’s network entirely, destroyed his web, made sure the threat was gone completely. But that will take months, years even. I realised I didn’t… couldn’t… imagine being away from you that long, with you thinking I was dead, moving on with your life.”

John’s heart melts. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock shakes his head and pulls away. “I’m being very selfish now, John. More selfish than I think I have ever been. I thought of how hard it would be to be alone for so long, how you might move on and forget me, find a woman, get married, by the time I got back. I thought if I was gone too long you might not forgive me. And I decided that mattered more to me than your safety. You should hate me for this.”

“Oh, just... _shut up_ ,” John says, grabbing his coat and pulling Sherlock down to him, kissing him heartily, hungrily, gratefully. Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise, then he gives himself up to the kiss and returns it eagerly. They break apart only when neither can go without oxygen any longer.

Sherlock looks pleased, and a little ashamed of it. “Will you come with me, John? Will you help me? It will be very dangerous and we may be gone a long time, but I… would very much appreciate your assistance. And your company.”

John grins. “Do you even have to ask?”

Sherlock nods. “We have to leave right away, you can’t go back to your flat. Do you have your gun with you?”

“Yes.” John had not gone anywhere without it since Sherlock had died.

“Then let’s go. I’ll tell you where we are headed on the way.”

John grabs his arm. “Wait. Are we okay here? I mean just for a few more minutes. Is anyone watching?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I wasn’t followed and if you had been we’d already know. Mycroft’s drivers know how to lose a tail.”

“Okay. Just give me one moment.”

John pulls out his mobile, fiddles with it for a moment, and sets it on the floor a little way away from them. The sounds of violin music, slightly tinny but magnified by the hard concrete and aluminium around them, waft up from the floor. Sherlock cocks his head, listening. “Schubert… Opus 18, No. 6, waltz in B minor. That’s…my own arrangement for the violin. That’s me…playing… in our flat.”

“You played that a lot more than you realised,” John told him. “I never wanted to forget that night, so I recorded it on my phone when you weren’t paying attention.”

Sherlock is too moved to say anything in response.

John bows and holds out a hand. “One dance? Before we go. You lead.”

In the cold, empty, dim warehouse they twirl and spin as if they are in the most elegant of ballrooms, in the finest of clothes, with the best orchestra. Sherlock holds John very tightly to him indeed this time, cheeks pressed against each other, eyes closed, completely insensible to their surroundings, lost in one another, moving as one.

“I never gave up on you, you know,” John breathes in Sherlock’s ear. “I never will.”

Sherlock makes a soft sound of gratitude and pulls him even closer. 

They both know next few months will be difficult. There will be danger and death, and blood, hopefully of others but very probably both of theirs’ as well. It may be a very long time before they are safe again, before they can come home. But right now, in this moment, none of it matters. They are alive, they are together, and there is only dancing.


End file.
